


As You Wish

by RebeccaMeyers12



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game), The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Brief animal death, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Forced Marriage, Inconcievable, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pirates, Rodents of Unusual Size - ROUS, Romance, Sword Fighting, The princess bride but no violence against women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaMeyers12/pseuds/RebeccaMeyers12
Summary: “What’s it about?” She asked.“Oh, it’s about… a beautiful prince, a clever pirate, a wicked princess, a scorned swordsman on a quest of revenge, and a gentle giant! Wild swordfights! Electric eels! And… above all… True love. The purest, truest kind of love there is.” Nat smiled slightly, then forced it from her face.“Okay, dad. That does sound pretty cool. But… if I don’t end up liking it, we have to put on a movie or something, ok?” Trencil chuckled slightly.“Alright, my blossom. That’s a promise.”Basically a Princess Bride AU. Inspired by Aroacefunspace on tumblr.
Relationships: Kamal Bora/Dr. Boris Habit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Once Upon A Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Hollowness Was in His Arms, and the World Was Smiling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779150) by [Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat/pseuds/Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat). 



> So this was actually inspired by Never_Eat_Sour_Wheat's Princess Bride Au, which they posted about on tumblr! It really struck me so I had to write something for it. They already have their own fic about it posted, and I would HEAVILY recommend reading it because it is A+. Also, big shout out to them as well, because I literally could not have written this without their help. With that being said, there are some things about this fic that differ from the book and movie. No enormous canon divergence, but you'd probably notice if you know the Princess Bride well enough. With that being said, enjoy!

_ Nat HATED being sick. Despite being half-vampire, it seems even she wasn’t immune to the common flu. Being kept home from school, and all of her friends SUCKED. She sighed as the landline rang for what must have been the thirtieth time that day. She was starting to regret asking her dad to move it up to her room so she could talk with her friends while she recovered.  _

_ “Hello?” She said dryly. She didn’t have to guess too hard as to who it was.  _

_ “NAT! It’s me again. Trevor. Garbo, obviously. If you couldn’t tell.” _

_ “Yeah, I kind of thought so,” Nat said smirking to herself. Of all the calls made to the landline, Trevor had taken up about ninety percent of them, with the other ten percent being her honorary aunts Tiff, Jerafina, and Lulia calling to wish her a speedy recovery. Trevor babbled furiously in her ear. Nat was pretty sure he was all hopped up on his Dnd games and energy drinks at the moment, accounting for his excitement.  _

_ “Well I know I’ve been calling a lot, but I have to tell you about my new theory! It’s really really cool, but you’re NEVER gonna believe it. You see, I was watching that weird little purple kid run around yesterday, and I was wondering, ‘How do they have so much energy???’ Than I realized! I think they’re a goblin. I know that’s the truth because I play DND that means Dungeons and dragons if you don’t remember from the last time we talked about it and Goblins are really greedy and like shiny things and they also-”  _

_ Just then, there was a knock at Nat’s door. Startled, she put a hand over the phone, muffling Trevor’s garbled rant.  _

_ “Who is it?” She called.  _

_ “It’s your father. Can I come in?” Nat huffed. This was pretty much a lesser of two evils situation. On one hand, she could deal with Trevor’s 31st rant of the day, or she could put up with another one of her father’s long lectures on how proud of her he was, and how she was becoming such a beautiful young lady, and UGH. No contest. _

_ “Trevor, that’s really cool, and I promise we’ll talk about it all day at school, but right now I have to, uh, vomit or something.” _

_ “WAIT, Vampires can vomit?!?!” _

_ “Bye.” She said, putting the phone back on the hook. She looked up towards the door where she knew her father was still waiting. Say what you want about him, at least he respected her privacy. _

_ “You can come in, dad. It’s not locked.” Nat said. Slowly, the door slid open, revealing Trencil standing there, a book in his hand.  _

_ “Hello, my dear. How are you feeling?” Nat rolled her eyes.  _

_ “I’m fine, dad. I told you you don’t have to keep checking up on me all the time.” Trencil smiled slightly, and Nat felt a pang of guilt shoot through her.  _

_ “I’m sorry, my darling. It just pains a father to see his only daughter suffering. I know I must learn to respect you for the young woman you are becoming, but-” This was quickly turning into one of her father's rants. Nat frantically waved her hand at him, sitting up in bed. _

_ “Dad! I get it, I get it. It’s ok. You don’t have to explain.” As she sat up, the blankets pooled around her. Trencil rushed forward, tucking her in despite her protests. _

_ “Dad! Please! You don’t have to tuck me in. I’m not a kid anymore.” Trencil sighed and sat on the bed beside her.  _

_ “I know that,” He said quietly, absently stroking the covers. “I just wanted to spend a little time with you.” Hesitantly, he pulled out the book he had been carrying.  _

_ “What’s that?” She said, eyeing it. It looked well worn to the point of being homemade, with no title on the cover or spine. Trencil’s wide grin returned. _

_ “Well, my flower, when I was a young boy, I once fell very ill too. My father read this story to me, and I simply supposed…” He faltered, his enthusiasm catching up to him as he noticed the look on Nat’s face. _

_ “Dad, that’s really… nice, and all, but I don’t need a bedtime story.” Trencil sighed, but the smile on his face.  _

_ “Oh dear, this is no simple bedtime story. This is a fantastical tale!” Nat rolled her eyes. _

_ “What’s it about?” She asked, eyeing it once more. It did look pretty cool. In the way an old abandoned building did.  _

_ “Oh, it’s about… a beautiful prince, a clever pirate, a wicked princess, a scorned swordsman on a quest of revenge, and a gentle giant! Wild swordfights! Electric eels! And… above all… True love. The purest, truest kind of love there is.” Nat smiled slightly, then forced it from her face.  _

_ “Okay, dad. That does sound pretty cool. But… if I don’t end up liking it, we have to put on a movie or something, ok?” Trencil chuckled slightly.  _

_ “Alright, my blossom. That’s a promise.” _

_ With that, Trencil opened the book.  _

_ Once upon a time, in a land far, far away… _

“Farmboy,” Boris said to the shack door. He waited for a moment. The air was cool and gentle in the early morning hours despite the summer blooms. Boris huffed and wiped his hands on his dress apron. When enough time had passed for one to reasonably expect an answer, Boris stepped forward and neatly knocked on the door once more. 

“Farmboy!” He said, a little sharper this time. He had made up his mind to shout it when suddenly, the door opened wide. There stood the farmhand, neatly dressed and clean-faced as though he had been up for hours. Boris folded his arms. The farm boy gave him a short and proper bow before stepping out of the shack, carefully shutting the door behind him. For a moment before the door closed, Boris caught sight of the perfectly swept floor, the small yet neatly made bed, the clean table, and then the door slammed shut. His eyes flicked back to the farm boy and he huffed, putting his hands on his hips.

“I’ve been waiting for ten minutes.” He said shortly. The farm boy nodded quickly. 

“My apologies, sir. I was sweeping up.” Boris rolled his eyes and tossed his long braid over his shoulder. His hair was dirty but fell to his hips. It was about the color of autumn mud, with a fine layer of dust mixed in. Boris had never cared much for washing himself. His careful tending of the garden of his home left dirt deep underneath his fingernails, lightly dusted onto his face, and ground deep into his clothes.

“Well, perhaps next time you ought to wake up earlier so I won’t be kept waiting so long,” Boris said shortly. The farm boy smiled slightly, more to himself than Boris, but it angered him all the same. 

“Farmboy, I want you to go out and fetch water for the garden.”

“As you wish.” The farm boy said and set off into a run towards the well. 

“And be quick about it!” Boris called after him and turned back for the farmhouse. His uncle stood outside sharpening a knife against a stone. In the field far away, Boris could make out his two cousins harvesting wheat.

“He always finds a way to keep me waiting. He’s lazy.” Boris complained to his uncle.

“He’s a good boy,” His uncle said offhandedly. “You’re far too hard on him.”

“I just think he does it on purpose,” Boris said, gazing off in the direction of his garden. The Farmboy had returned and was carefully watering the plants as if he had planted each and everyone himself. Boris remembered how intently the farmboy had watched as he had planted them. Boris had denied his help, preferring to do the planting himself. As he watched, the farm boy gently lifted a lily up to his nose and inhaled. Boris scoffed.

“I’ll leave him an acre of land. He’s worked hard enough to deserve it.” His uncle said. Boris’s uncle was getting on in years. 

Much of the days of their lives passed in this way. Nothing seemed to bring Boris such happiness as ordering the farm boy about, and, curiously enough, nothing seemed to bring the farmboy such happiness as obeying, always with the only thing that ever left his lips. The easiest tasks did not phase him.

“Farmboy,” Boris would say. “Put the wash on the line for me.” 

“As you wish.” 

Nor did the filthiest. 

“Farmboy,” Boris would say. “Sweep out the stable for me. It’s disgusting.” 

“As you wish.” 

Nor did the hardest.

“Farmboy,” Boris would ask. “Will you please walk me to the market today? I need you to carry the baskets.”

“As you wish.” 

It was a curious thing to Boris, who would have brought anyone else to anger with his insistence and impatience. Yet the Farmboy never once faltered, never once revolted, and never showed the slightest sign of anger. And as time wore on, the words began to sound more and more different, until the day finally came that Boris, during one long sleepless night, realized that all along, he had misheard the Farmboy. You see, when he had heard the Farmboy say, “As you wish,” The Farmboy had really meant, “I love you.” 

Boris sat up. The moon caught a strand of his hair awash in a glow of silver. He swung his legs over the bed and stuffed them into his boots. He pulled his coat on over his nightclothes and stumbled out the door. The farm boys shack was a stone’s throw from the farmhouse, yet even while running there, it felt as though it took an eternity for Boris to arrive at the door. He raised his hand, then faltered.

What if he was wrong? 

What if the farm boy didn’t love him at all? 

His lip trembled. He thought of how cruel he had been, how demanding, how terribly unkind. Would HE love someone who had treated him this way? 

Boris slowly lowered his hand. He began to step back. He turned away, a tear rolling down his cheek.

And then, the door opened. Boris turned. 

The Farmboy stood there in the doorway, holding a lit candle. He was smiling softly.

“I heard you outside,” He said. He didn’t say anything else.

Boris’s lip trembled.

“May I come in?” He said. The farm boy watched him with wide, dark eyes. How had Boris never noticed how deep and dark his eyes were? As rich and brown as the dirt in his garden. The Farmboy stepped back to allow space. Boris walked through the door.

“As you wish,” The farm boy said.

Boris stepped closer.

“I love you.” He said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I know I haven’t been… kind. To you. I know you must be surprised, because I’ve always ordered you around, and been so very cruel to you, and never spoken to you except to tell you what to do, but I love you. I understand if you don’t feel the same, or if you don’t even want to speak to me, but it doesn’t matter to me. I love you all the same. I love you so much more than I did yesterday that there can be no comparison. I love you so much more now than when you opened up your shack door that there can be no comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you. My ears adore you. My legs shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for all the rest of your days? I’ll never order you to do another thing again. And if you like it, I’ll be quiet for the rest of eternity. I just-” And then, the farm boy stood upon the tips of his toes, pulled on the collar of Boris’s coat til he was at his level, and kissed him. 

It was a nice kiss. There have been five great kisses in the whole history of the world. The precise rating of a kiss is a difficult and highly controversial thing. However, the five that were noted above all else were agreed upon to be the best the world had to offer. 

This one trumped them all.

When they at long last parted, They gazed into each other's eyes, holding each other tightly. The sun was beginning to rise outside, and the light filtered in through the cracks in the shacks' poorly thatched roof, the holes in the wall, the seams of the wooden boards. The light illuminated the two in a web of gold. Boris realized then that he had never been inside the Farm boy’s shack before. Now he saw that though it was indeed clean and well kept, the floor was made of loose earth. The fireplace was made out of stones that appeared to have been fetched from the river. The bed was more of a pile of fabric on the ground. The table was the only thing that constituted real furniture, and even that had been cast out from the farmhouse. Boris felt his heart sink in his chest. 

“You… You can’t stay here any longer.” He said, looking around. “All the while, I slept on a comfortable bed… While you slept here, in the cold. It’s shameful.” The farm boy smiled. 

“It was worth it. For you, sir.” Boris shook his head.

“Don’t call me sir ever again. I can’t stand it. Call me Boris!” It was then that Boris realized something.

“Wait… what’s YOUR name?” 

“Kamal. Kamal Bora.” Boris smiled. Kamal looked up at him with awe in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Kamal whispered.

“From now on,” Boris said, when they parted again, “You stay in the farmhouse with me. You… you can sleep in MY bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

“Or we could share the bed,” Kamal said as he ran his hand through Boris’s hair, fingering the long braid. “And no one has to sleep on the floor ever again.” 

Boris laughed and took Kamal’s hand. The two stepped out into the summer dawn, the golden light illuminating Boris’s long hair, the light reflecting Kamal’s eyes. The two smiled at each other. Hand in hand, they both-

_ “Uh, Dad?” _

_ Trencil looked up, startled. Nat crossed her arms. _

_ “Ok, ok. So this is really… cute, but where’s the pirate? The evil princess? Where are the SWORDFIGHTS? Or the electric eels! Come on, dad! This is so… mushy.” Trencil sighed and snapped the book shut. “I’m sorry you aren’t enjoying it,” He said. “It’s understandable. I suppose you don’t care to hear about all the death, and grieving.”  _

_ Nat sat up straighter. Death and grieving could be interesting. As long as it wasn’t mushy.  _

_ “Well…” She said, contemplating. “I guess… I could hear what happens next. But… only if it’s really interesting.” _

_ “Then may I continue?” Trencil said, reopening the book.  _

_ “Okay, okay.”  _

Time passed in perfect happiness for the new couple. Every day they spent their time together, sharing every chore, every meal, and everything in between. Though the hard work made him tired, and all the dirtier, Boris had never been happier. Then, one day, when they worked together in the garden, Boris looked over at Kamal hunched over in the dirt, weeding the flowers, and had the sudden realization that he never wanted to leave this moment. Kamal looked over at him and noticed the odd expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Nothing,” Boris said, turning towards him. There was a wide grin on his face. The kind of grin that held plans behind it. Kamal smiled back.

“What are you smiling for?” Kamal asked, walking up to Boris, wrapping his arms around him. 

“Kamal… I want to do this forever.” 

“Do what? Tend gardens?” 

“No! Well- yes. Sort of. Kamal-” Boris pulled back, slightly, gripping Kamal’s elbows. His face was radiant in the summer afternoon. He was blushing and his hair framed his face like the petals of a flower. Kamal laughed at Boris’s excitement, reaching up and patting his cheek. Boris snickered and waved his hand away. “Kamal,” He said. “I want to marry you.” Kamal’s smile disappeared.

“What?” He said. Boris’s smile melted away at the look on Kamal’s face. 

“Kamal-” He began. Kamal took Boris’s hands.

“Boris,” He said, “I want to marry you too. But-” He looked away. “Boris, I have nothing. I have no money. I can’t support us.” 

“But that doesn’t matter!” 

“Of course it matters!” Kamal said. “It matters more than anything. We can’t stay on your uncle’s land forever! No. I need… I need to support us both. For that, I need to find work. Real, honest work.” He began to walk out of the garden, Boris following close behind.

“Kamal, you’ll never find a better job in all the land than the one you’ve got here!” Boris spluttered. Kamal froze.

“You’re right.” He said. “Which is why I have to leave.” 

“L-leave?! You can’t!” Boris cried out. Kamal turned towards him and wrapped his arms around him so suddenly he nearly knocked the wind out of him. 

“I know. I know. But I have to make a life for us. We’ll never survive if we don’t have money. We need to make a living for ourselves.” Kamal tucked his face into Boris’s chest, inhaling his scent. “I don’t want to leave either, but I have to. I’ll work until I’ve got enough for us to survive, and then I’ll return to you. We’ll be married and we’ll have everything we need.” Boris wrapped his arms around Kamal.

“I understand.” He said, finally. “I wish I didn’t have to. But I do.” 

“I promise it’ll feel like I was never gone,” Kamal whispered. “By the time I get back, we’ll spend every hour of every day together.” 

“But what if you don’t come back?” Boris said, fear rising inside him.

“I’ll come back. Nothing will keep me away.” 

“Then…” Boris wracked his brain frantically. “Promise me. Promise you’ll come back to me.” 

“As you wish,” Kamal said.

And then, he was gone. Not immediately, of course. But to Boris, it felt as though he had been holding Kamal in his arms one minute, and in the next, he had vanished out of his arms, and all the way across the wide ocean, untouchable, unreachable except for the letters they managed to send.

Kamal wrote a letter every time his ship entered harbor. They usually said something like, ‘Today it was raining, and I love you’. Or, ‘Today it was too hot and I love you.’ And often, ‘Today nothing happened and I love you.’ They were all like that.

Boris, who could not write very well, penned letters that were marginally more difficult to understand, but carried the same important message. 

‘T oodaey aye had 2 karry awl uv tha wat-tur buck-ets buy muyself, and it wuz var-y var-y hardd. I love you lotts. : - ) ’ It was a very heartfelt message, and no one who knew the context could rightfully mock it.

The letters were like leaflets of gold to the two lovers. All that brought Boris joy in that time was to hold one of Kamal’s letters in his hand, to inhale the scent of it, to press it to his heart. There were days he felt overwhelmed by his love for Kamal. 

Which is why it bothered him so much to hear of his death.

“Pirates,” Uncle Grigory said quietly. Hesitantly. As if speaking to an animal. “The Dread Pirates.” Beside him stood Boris’s two cousins, as solemn and still as a painting.

Boris sat down. 

“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” He said dully. 

“...Yes.”

“The one who doesn’t take prisoners?” He whispered. Something around him felt like a flickering flame, as though his face was being held to the fire. It felt difficult to catch his breath.

“Yes.” 

Boris couldn’t breathe. The world was burning and freezing around him and the air had been sucked out of the room. Why wouldn’t anyone open a window? Couldn’t they see he was dying? Couldn’t they feel the death hovering in the air?

“They say he attacked the ship. It was during the night. No one… No one survived.”

Boris sobbed, involuntarily. It was a deep, throaty sob that is only heard once in a very long time. It was a sob of such grief that it penetrated deep into the heart of anyone who heard it. 

“How did it happen?” He said, suddenly sitting upright. His eyes were as dry as sand. “Did they impale him on a spear? Or drown him? Oh, perhaps they beat him to death. What does it matter? Listen to me, he’s dead. What does it matter how they killed him?” 

And then, he stood, swaying, ignoring his uncle and cousins, and retreated to his room. The door clicked shut like a coffin lid.

For seven days, he did not leave his room, though his uncle and cousins begged and pleaded. Eventually, they resorted to leaving food and water at the door. Finally, on the night of the seventh day, the door swung open. 

Boris stood in the open doorway, staring down at his cousin who had been setting a plate of food by the door. He had entered the room stricken with the cold, hard grief that comes of losing your first love. He stepped out of his room radiant. His hair, newly clean, was the color of autumn. His golden eyes shining with clear, bright sadness.

“I never once combed my hair for him,” Boris said. “He only ever saw me filthy with dirt, and he loved me anyway.” 

He was twenty-one. He was the most beautiful person in all of the world. He didn’t seem to care.

“Are you alright?” His cousin said.

“Yes,” Boris said, stooped down, and picked up the plate of food. “But I shall never love again.”

He never did.

_ Trencil shut the book. Nat stared at him. _

_ “Y-You can’t just stop!” She yelped. “Not there! What happens next?” Trencil patted her head and turned off the bedroom light. _

_ “I’ll read you more,” He said, smiling over his shoulder. “Tomorrow.” _


	2. Grief

_ “Dad, hurry up!”  _

_ Nat positioned herself comfortably in bed as she pulled the landline plug out of the wall. Trevor had been calling again, and though she liked to talk to him, all she had been able to think of all day was her father’s story. At Trencil’s pointed look at her nightstand, she quickly chugged the cough medicine he had poured out for her and gagged at the taste. She shuffled in excitement, not even caring how childish she must look. She grinned.  _

_ “Come on! I want to hear what happens next!” Trencil smiled and reached over to ruffle her hair. She huffed, brushing his hand away, and adjusting her hair once more. She picked up the book off of her pillowcase and handed it to him. _

_ “Alright, alright. I take it you’re enjoying the story?” He teased. Nat flushed. _

_ “I just want to hear what happens next! I can’t stand cliffhangers, dad.” Trencil nodded and flipped the book open. _

_ “Are you sure you’re ready?” He said. Nat groaned. _

_ “DAD!” _

_ “Alright, I’m just teasing you.” Trencil cleared his throat and began. _

The month Boris Habit turned twenty-four, three years after the death of his beloved, the Princess of his kingdom was engaged to be married to a very handsome young prince. The engagement had proceeded as well as anyone could hope for, until it suddenly ended very, very poorly, upon the discovery that the handsome princes’ beautiful, unnaturally white teeth were, in fact, not his own, but a very very well made set of dentures, an invention that was new and nearly unheard of for the time. The princess, being a very materialistic and superficial person who generally valued physical beauty above all else, was quite enraged over the whole ordeal, and, regardless of how anyone else felt about the whole predicament, the princess had put her foot down.

“I will NOT marry a man without a tooth in his head.” She said firmly. Her speech had never been flowery, so to speak. But she had a way with a commanding, and when she had something to say, as a general rule of thumb, she was listened to.

“Oh, but he was so very kind, my dear.” Her mother had said. Her father might have said something as well, but he was getting on in years, and his hearing had rendered itself to the passage of time quite a while ago.

“I don’t care how kind he is,” Snarled the princess. Uncommon for the time, she had all of the teeth in her head, and each one was exactly as white as the driven snow. “Everyone would laugh at me. The wife of a toothless king. I want a beautiful husband. I want a husband so beautiful and wonderful to look at, everyone else will know I’m not someone to be trifled with.” Also uncommon for the time, it was not in her nature to be content with what she had. 

_ “Dad, that sucks,” Nat said. “When was this written? That’s really sad.” Trencil smiled apologetically. _

_ “I know, Nat. But this book could be said to be a product of its time. Things have changed since then.”  _

_ “I know that. I just feel kind of sorry for her.” Nat said. _

_ “Trust me, you won’t for long.” _

Princess Martha was beautiful in the same way a grey porcelain doll was beautiful. Her skin was cold as ice, as was her gaze, her voice, and her heart. Nothing touched her, and she touched no one. She was tall and slender and pretty in every single way that a person could be expected to be pretty, and, in this way, not quite pretty at all. She had absolutely no tenderness in her heart or mannerisms, and if she had desired to be a painter or poet, she would have had a miserable time of it. Fortunately for Martha, she did not want to be a painter or poet. She wanted to rule. 

On the eve her father took ill, to the outward eye, she was the picture of a perfect, grieving daughter. Only her eyes, icicle silver blue and colder than the coldest frost betrayed her joy. Still, she fixed her signature smile onto her face with the patience and clarity she was known for, every tooth sparkling like a newly-carved gravestone, her red lips curving like a bow with an arrow nocked. 

The castle corridor was quiet, grey as the tomb, and cold. Martha crept along the passageway, the moonlight streaming through the turrets, through the cobblestone cracks. Martha looked up and nodded to the man in the corridor.

The man who waited in the corridor had eyes that pierced like the tip of an arrow. He watched Martha with a smile like an open wound. 

“The old fool’s asleep,” She whispered. “I doubt he’ll make it to the end of the month.” The man nodded. 

“I didn’t expect him to last the afternoon.” The man said. Martha scoffed.

“Come now, Martin. He’s old, but he’s never been weak.” Martin considered this.

“What will you do?” He asked. He flexed his six fingers to ward off the chill. He had six fingers on each hand, and he wore a finely made pair of silken gloves to cover them. He wore a beautiful sword on his hip that had never seen a day of battle, and his teeth were very well kept. Even for a nobleman as himself, that was no small feat. 

“Take over, of course. They’re both old. Once he’s gone, my mother’s sure to follow.” Martin laughed at this. It was a laugh that rattled up the spine of anyone who heard it. As the princess’s right-hand man, he was well used to her plans, well aware of her wickedness. He didn’t care much about it since he shared it so strongly. 

“You’ll never take over this kingdom,  _ my lady. _ ” Martha scowled.

“You’re right about that.” She said. “If I were a man, I’d have poisoned them long before now.” In every other way, Martha knew her power was unmatched. Her brutality and cruelty were enough to rival any warlord. Her talent with the sword, with the bow, and with the best way to inflict pain would have made her into a fearsome Queen. Had she been a warlord, her name would have been feared in every kingdom surrounding theirs. 

“Then it’s settled,” she resolved. “I must marry, at once.” 

“The last one didn’t go so well,” Martin noted. 

“This one will be better. I’ll find myself a good one. I do so enjoy a hunt, Martin.” 

“Will you send this one to the pit of despair?” He said, a smile unfolding on his lips.

“Only if he rebels.” She smiled to herself. 

When a person has wickedness inside of them, it has to go somewhere. If it doesn’t, it just stays there and rots a person from the inside out until their wickedness makes them as ugly outside as they are in. Martha loved the thrill of the hunt, the joy of the kill. The suffering of her prey brought her happiness above all else. For a time, she had channeled her feelings through her training, her bloodlust. But after a time, she had advanced so far there was nothing left for her advisors and tutors to teach her. And so, she turned to man-made ways of pain, brutality, and death. 

The pit of despair, aptly named, dwelt far below the castle, hidden behind secret doors and hidden passageways only someone well acquainted with the area could detect. And Princess Martha was very well acquainted. And in this pit of despair, kept securely in five different levels, were all manners of beasts, each more ferocious and strong than the last. Each day, in the manner any other person might select a new outfit to wear for the day, Princess Martha would select a new creature to fight. Somedays, she chose based on her mood. Other days, she chose based on how strong or fast or wicked she felt. Somedays, her thirst for blood overruled any decision she would make, and all she wanted was to kill, regardless of the species. Martin would often watch from afar, a wicked smirk on his face.

Not too terribly long after their meeting in the castle corridor, and not much longer after the newly dubbed ‘denture incident’, Martha was finishing up in the arena, in the third level. She hadn’t felt terribly angry or bloodthirsty that day, and her kill of the day had not been terribly satisfying. She pensively watched the blood stain the floor and stepped back, taking great care to ensure her boots were not stained. 

Martha wiped the sheen of blood off her sword as casually as you or I might wipe a crumb off of our mouth after lunch. She shrugged at the unfortunate creature that had earned her ire for the day and turned away. She glanced up at Martin who had taken his usual position up in his high seat, safely away from the arena. She smiled.

“You could have drawn it out longer, in my opinion,” Martin said, a wicked grin on his face. Martha scoffed. 

“I didn’t quite feel up to it,” She said. Martin raised an eyebrow.

“I do hope you’re not  _ bored  _ with your little playground, my liege. We did spend quite a long time assembling it for you.”

Martha rolled her eyes, and strode away from the poor beast behind her. It would be taken care of. She didn’t particularly care. Her mind was elsewhere. 

“The problem is,” She said to Martin as she climbed the steps outside the arena to meet with him, “Is that no matter who I marry, I’ll have to be some subservient little doll for him. It doesn’t matter if he’s as war-loving as I am. I’ll always be one place behind him.” Martin nodded, smirking slightly.

“Well...” He began. Martha perked up. 

“You’ve got an idea, you evil bastard. I demand you tell me at once.” She knew Martin just as well as he knew her. Martin grinned deviously. 

“Is there any law saying you’ve got to marry  _ royalty?”  _ He said. Very, very slowly, a horrid grin full of many teeth climbed onto Martha’s face, her red lips shining like the blood glistening on the arena floor.

“You’re suggesting a puppet for a king,” She said, a wicked plan taking root in her mind. Martin nodded. 

“Find some brainless fool. Make him look presentable. Marry the two of you-”

“Then when I’ve got a suitable heir, slit the silly twit’s throat. Oh, Martin, you hateful, monstrous bastard!” She stood suddenly, a sharp laugh ripping its way out of her throat. “You wonderful, evil man. Yes, that’s it!” Martin nodded in acknowledgment. 

“Just wanting the best for you, my lady.” He thought for a moment. “One problem, your highness. Who shall it be?” Martha waved a hand dismissively.

“It doesn’t matter to me. As long as he’s pretty looking. If he’s beautiful, I couldn’t give a damn about anything else.” She turned to Martin. “I mean that. I want the most beautiful man in the land. He has to put everyone else to shame.” 

And Martin began to smile.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I can help you there.” 

Meanwhile, far away from the castle on the small stretch of farmland, Boris patted Horse’s mane, his mind a million yards away. His cousins and uncles tended the fields, the harvest soon upon them. Two years had passed since Boris had learned of Kamal’s death, and though his outward appearance reflected a sort of calm, on the inside he felt nothing. The world had gone cold and grey and dark, the days passing as though they were leaves fluttering off the branches in autumn. Boris smiled, pretended to show some sign of life, Worked harder than he ever had before in a desperate attempt to avoid worrying what little family he had left. Before he had told Kamal everything, every sad memory was shared, as well as every joyful thought, but now he kept his thoughts locked up tightly. There was nothing left for him. He lived his life to die. 

Boris buried his face in Horse’s neck, muffling his deep, throaty sobs. This had been Kamal’s horse. Boris and he had once ridden together, deep into the twilight forests together, over hills and through meadows of Calla lilies. Days like that made Boris forget about the gaps in his smile where painful memories had once dwelled and erased every bit of sadness from his heart and mind. Those days had seemed as if they would never end. 

His sad thoughts were interrupted by a train of soldiers on foot and horseback, escorting a tall, thin, and dangerous-looking man on a horse that resembled him strikingly. And beside him, on a horse of her own which was pearl white in color- was the princess! Boris sank down into a bow. What was the princess of his country doing here, on his family's pitiful farm? 

Martha stared down at him appraisingly. She turned to Martin with a smile.

“He’s perfect.” She said. “How in the world did you find him?” Martin shrugged.

“His family has cows,” He responded. “He delivers the milk in the mornings. Word gets around about someone like him.” Martha nodded.

“What’s his name?” She asked. Martin racked his brain for a moment. 

“Boris.” He said. “Boris Habit,” Martha smirked.

“He’ll do.” She said to Martin. Finally, she dismounted her horse and raised her voice to address this commoner. Boris took a step back at her approach, clearly nervous. 

“Hello,” She said rather pleasantly. Boris was not comforted. 

“Greetings, your majesty,” He whispered. She watched him for a moment. 

Grief had robbed him of the joyful sparkle to his eyes, and he no longer smiled, not even for pleasantry's sake. His eyes were framed with deep shadows, and speaking to him, one couldn’t help but feel hollow and cold. But his hair still cascaded down his back in mahogany ringlets, and his face was still open, clear, and terribly pretty. Grief couldn’t take away his beauty. Martha, who was very intelligent and very observant of the traits people tended to hide, noticed all of this at once. Well, almost all of it. For in everything else, she failed to notice the spark of rebellion and inner strength he still carried. All that stood out to her was someone who would be easily swayed, easily broken down. That and someone almost as beautiful as her.

No one would snicker behind her back, that was certain. He would put everyone to shame.

She made her mind up at once. 

“I am your princess, and I have come to marry you.” She announced. As established, she was not one for formalities or pretty wording. Boris paled. 

“No.” He whispered. Martha’s smile faded slightly. 

“ _ What  _ did you say?” She said, very icily. Of course she had heard. Her sense of hearing was impeccable, thanks to her hunting training. This was merely her way of warning him. 

He disregarded that warning. 

“I said no, your highness.” Martha’s smile dropped entirely.

“You cannot refuse me. I am your princess.” 

“I am your subject, and I refuse.” 

Martha scowled. She hadn’t expected even a fraction of rebellion. Any other peasant would have thrown themselves at her feet long ago by now.

“If you refuse, it will end in your death.” She said. Boris smiled a mirthless, joyless, empty smile. It was then that Martha noticed his missing teeth, and was revolted. Still, she was able to comfort herself at the thought that she wouldn’t need to talk to him too much.

Boris was not frightened. In his mind, he was already dead. Nothing they did could hurt him. 

“Kill me, then.” He spoke slowly, but surely. Martha shifted uneasily. 

“Now hold on a moment,” Martha said. “I’m going to be queen over all this land. You’ll be king. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” 

“All the power and riches in the world couldn’t make me love you.” 

Martha raised an eyebrow. “Love? I never once mentioned love, did I?” 

Boris went still. “You… What could you possibly care to marry for, then?” The thought of a relationship being founded on anything other than profound, true love baffled him.

“I want an heir. And a king to rule besides. Nothing much else concerns me. You can keep your love to yourself, by all means if that makes you feel better. But it’s either me or the tomb. What do you say?” 

Boris rubbed a hand over his face, wiping his eyes dry. He had never shed a single tear during this encounter, but it was a reflex at this point.

“Then by all means,” He said. “Let us marry.”


End file.
